In Praise Of Poetry 
Poetry is no less than this:
An unexpected workplace kiss 
The brandy in the spirit cage
A salve upon our wounded age
That lustful swell, the secret damp
The yellow of the attic lamp  
The drifting, smoky, hazel haze
Of wooded hills on autumn days
Between the thoughts of summer lost
And anvil of the winter frost 
The horse returning to the door
Of empty stables after war 
Riderless, uncertain now    
Past the harrow and its plough
Plodding up the pitted track 
Battered saddle on his back

Poetry: Rentboy of the arts
Loitering with the other tarts
Knowing far more than it should
Much too much for its own good
Bitching, blurting, doing deals
Selling out for drinks and meals 
Jumping on the latest trends
Disappointing loyal friends
Eye on clock and thumb on scales
Marrying for cash and sales
You wouldn't trust him in your car
And definitely not, a bar. 

The poet though, is alchemist 
A snake-oil salesman, pharmacist 
A mojo merchant trawling town
The painter put his dust-sheet down
In case your old horizons run 
Before he touches up the sun
Recalling feelings you may not
Evoking those that you forgot
Giving voice to words unsaid
The godless freefall in your head
The things you never knew, yet miss.
Poetry is no less than this.

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